1) Denial: This is easier than we thought!
2) Anger: I just want to go out and have no idea what to do with myself!
3) Bargaining: I’m allowed a pass- what’s the harm in four shmiddies
4) Depression: The stage we’re both at now.
5) Acceptance: The stage we wish we were at now.
An old friend of mine pointed out that ever since I’ve gotten off the sauce, I’ve started hating everything. That’s not entirely true- I’ve generally always teetered on the brink of complete misanthropy, and one of the downsides to intelligence is being able to see through complete and utter bullshit. I’m generally known for always being there for everyone who needs help, but that usually entails administering Tough Love therapy which universally begins with the phrase ‘Cut the Crap’.
But I am wondering if maybe I’ve become a bit more outwardly gloomy than normal. In the name of reversing the last 50 years worth of advances in Mental Health, I’m trying an experiment today. Thinking my way out of depression by being positive. I tend to loath anyone who is suffering inwardly yet outwardly thinks that positive thinking alone will change the fact that they’ve gotten themselves into a horrible mess. But let’s give it a go.
This morning being one of the rainiest, gloomiest mornings of the year so far, I took CityRail to work instead of walking.
New, Improved Positive Nathan: Instead of dropping my shoulder, fixing a maniacal stare on my face and charging through the commuter scrum streaming through the toilet-tiled concourse of Town Hall Station, I smiled brightly at everyone in my path. It worked- the crowds effortlessly parted in front of me. I then found a seat in a cozy train carriage and sat beaming at the broad cross section of humanity I was ensnared amongst, all preparing for the day ahead in various manners to the rhythm of flashing lights and jumping cables rocketing past on tunnel walls. For all my complaints about it, it’s great to live in a city with such an extensive public transport system- its 16 lines carry around a million passengers a day, and about 80% of peak hour commuter traffic- a vital and environmentally friendly asset to the City.
Normal Nathan: Oh my god the smiling thing actually worked. People get so uncomfortable with eye contact in public they really don’t know how to respond so they just clear the fuck out of your way. I’m definitely using this one more often. It was nice to be out of the rain but generally speaking I can run faster than the train anyway and 5 minute headways between trains in peak periods is absolutely third world. The problem with this complete mess is the system was designed back in the 1860s as an ill considered hybrid between the London Underground and Overground network, and the result was the worst of both. Tearing that shit up and replacing it with something like Hong Kong’s MTR is really the only way forward. It’s downright embarrassing. Happless tourists lulled into thinking that they're visiting a ‘World Class City’ climb the Harbour Bridge only to have their view fouled by graffiti covered double deckers picking their way amongst the catenary like partially poisoned centipedes in the spastic clutches of their mortality.
Experiment complete. Mes 5 minutes en rose may have been a more befitting title for this post. The fact of the matter is, I am simply incapable of thinking positively. It's just not in my nature. Being the postergirl for Cynicism does have its advantages after all. You can save yourself a lot of suffering by viewing the Human Race as the fermenting cess pit in the sun that it is. Life is better when everything's out in the open.
I had a mediocre day at work. I was just so numb- staring blankly at my monitors in between trips to the vending machine. I don't know why I'm in such a comfort eating mood at the moment, but the more I ate, the drearier I became. It was hard enough on my boss (dealing with two concurrent male midlife crises). For those of you who don't know her, she is the reigning queen of Nutrition and all things healthy. I felt badly, watching her pupils widening like the pits of Hell as I devoured E-number after Preservative after Emulsifying agent in rapid succession with the blissful and effortless ease of a Hammerhead at a Children's Beach. All accompanied by the sound track of my moaning- with muted glee as each glob of partially masticated chocolate flowed down my throat, interspersed with the sighs of agony as my barren conciousness wretched in the anticipation of going home to bed alone, with my cat.
In the end she couldn't take anymore- 'Nathan- have you gone to the gym yet today? You seriously need to go'. I muttered incorherantly to myself. She sighed, putting her headphones on in a vain attempt to distract herself from her disgust at the vending machine induced diabetic shock I was subjecting myself to in a halfhearted attempt to fill the void of universal woe permeating my meagre existence.
I had a non eventful trip home. It was still raining, so I crammed myself into a train carriage that probably hadn't been cleaned since the Eastern Suburbs line opened back in the 70s, and stared blankly into space. I drew SOS messages in the condensation on the windows. I Fidgeted awkardly when an Asian woman brushed up against me with her hand, calloused and boney from decades of toiling over synthetic textiles under the dim flickering lights of a backstreet sweatshop in Wuhan, lingerering far longer than it should. I avoided eye contact as though it were herpes. I was beyond fragile, like a strand of silk lost in the wind, that could be ripped to shreds by one thoughtful look from a pair of friendly eyes, blasting apart the crumbling foundations of my soul.
I got home, gave a cursorary hello to my flatmate, and promptly went to bed. That was 630pm.
I'm obviously depressed.
I woke up at 1230. Before knocking myself out again I figured I'd contemplate the depths of my despair (never a good idea when depressed). 5 stages of grieving aside, I miss my social life. I'm too social- I need to be surrounded by people in much the same manner as a lost puppy. I've been single for three years- I compensate by going out every night. As misanthropic as I am I'm still a total people-person. I really, really do not do well on my own. Years ago when I moved to Berlin I made a classic novice German mistake- thinking 'Zwei Zimmer' meant a cozy studio type apartment (literally- 'two rooms') and inadvertantly ended up renting a palatial apartment with two bedrooms, two balconies and a dining room flanking a vast expanse of a lounge, with a bay windowed office overlooking the Kollwitzplatz. I had to get a flatmate in (at subsidised rent) just because the flat was too goddamned big for little old me alone.
I think I can handle occaisional drinking- some social contact once a week fueled by alcohol. Something to look forward to every weekend, and the rest, well, I'm slowly learning how to interact with others without booze. It's painful at best.
Now I can't sleep. Especially now that I've gone and made myself a cup of tea and found that my cockroach problem has exponentially increased (Oh the perils of living in a hot climate above a supermarket and two restaurants). I can't win- they crawl up through the drains, fly in through open windows, oh yes, it's a Six Legged Sydney Summer alright.
I can't kill insects- or any anything for that matter. Call me a big softie, but people like me need all the good karma we can get. I've been laughed at for fishing a fly out of my drink and dabbing its wings dry with a napkin. I approach stray dogs in public and call animal control. I freak out when people step on spiders. I feed wild birds, pet feral cats, and on more than a few occaisions have risked the Hanta Virus by freeing mice and rats from sticky traps with nothing more than a butter knife and a sheet of cling film. If you ever want to make me cry, show me a suffering animal.
But I HATE cockies. They're such vile, wretched creatures even if I do share an affinity with their hardiness and survival in the face of adversity. My loathing for them was slightly diminished after watching Wall-E (Yes I cried my eyes out when he couldn't remember Eve. Fucking deal with it) but they creep me out to no end. Normally when I'm pissed I swallow all my morals, grab the death black can of Mortein, close my eyes and reenact The Cockroach in the Striped Pyjamas with reckless, gassy abandon. But I can't do it sober. My stomach wretches watching them flip on to their backs and violently die; even if the little fuckers do piss, shit, and vomit all over my food in an insectoid take on a Japanese Scat Orgy. It doesn't help having two lame duck cats that will happily toy with and ultimately devour any insect except cockroaches (to be fair, the Chairman is petrified of crawling insects after he was sprayed by a beetle and foamed at the mouth for an hour).
And until I find a cat safe roach bait (neither Coles nor Woolies carry one) I have to live with them. Even if it does occaisionally lead to socially awkward moments in front of company. In more extreme cases, startling my flatmate with a piercing shriek as I turn on the kitchen light, sending them scurrying for the safety of the shadows while I scurry up onto the nearest chair. Or more pedestrian exchanges, such as:
"Bitch please. If you think you can deposit your ootheca in the middle of the sink without me saying anything then you've got another thing coming!" *clicks fingers*
"Nathan, are you talking to the Cockroaches... again???"
And I wonder why I
a) Drink
and
b) Can't find a husband.
Experiment complete. Mes 5 minutes en rose may have been a more befitting title for this post. The fact of the matter is, I am simply incapable of thinking positively. It's just not in my nature. Being the postergirl for Cynicism does have its advantages after all. You can save yourself a lot of suffering by viewing the Human Race as the fermenting cess pit in the sun that it is. Life is better when everything's out in the open.
I had a mediocre day at work. I was just so numb- staring blankly at my monitors in between trips to the vending machine. I don't know why I'm in such a comfort eating mood at the moment, but the more I ate, the drearier I became. It was hard enough on my boss (dealing with two concurrent male midlife crises). For those of you who don't know her, she is the reigning queen of Nutrition and all things healthy. I felt badly, watching her pupils widening like the pits of Hell as I devoured E-number after Preservative after Emulsifying agent in rapid succession with the blissful and effortless ease of a Hammerhead at a Children's Beach. All accompanied by the sound track of my moaning- with muted glee as each glob of partially masticated chocolate flowed down my throat, interspersed with the sighs of agony as my barren conciousness wretched in the anticipation of going home to bed alone, with my cat.
In the end she couldn't take anymore- 'Nathan- have you gone to the gym yet today? You seriously need to go'. I muttered incorherantly to myself. She sighed, putting her headphones on in a vain attempt to distract herself from her disgust at the vending machine induced diabetic shock I was subjecting myself to in a halfhearted attempt to fill the void of universal woe permeating my meagre existence.
I had a non eventful trip home. It was still raining, so I crammed myself into a train carriage that probably hadn't been cleaned since the Eastern Suburbs line opened back in the 70s, and stared blankly into space. I drew SOS messages in the condensation on the windows. I Fidgeted awkardly when an Asian woman brushed up against me with her hand, calloused and boney from decades of toiling over synthetic textiles under the dim flickering lights of a backstreet sweatshop in Wuhan, lingerering far longer than it should. I avoided eye contact as though it were herpes. I was beyond fragile, like a strand of silk lost in the wind, that could be ripped to shreds by one thoughtful look from a pair of friendly eyes, blasting apart the crumbling foundations of my soul.
I got home, gave a cursorary hello to my flatmate, and promptly went to bed. That was 630pm.
I'm obviously depressed.
I woke up at 1230. Before knocking myself out again I figured I'd contemplate the depths of my despair (never a good idea when depressed). 5 stages of grieving aside, I miss my social life. I'm too social- I need to be surrounded by people in much the same manner as a lost puppy. I've been single for three years- I compensate by going out every night. As misanthropic as I am I'm still a total people-person. I really, really do not do well on my own. Years ago when I moved to Berlin I made a classic novice German mistake- thinking 'Zwei Zimmer' meant a cozy studio type apartment (literally- 'two rooms') and inadvertantly ended up renting a palatial apartment with two bedrooms, two balconies and a dining room flanking a vast expanse of a lounge, with a bay windowed office overlooking the Kollwitzplatz. I had to get a flatmate in (at subsidised rent) just because the flat was too goddamned big for little old me alone.
I think I can handle occaisional drinking- some social contact once a week fueled by alcohol. Something to look forward to every weekend, and the rest, well, I'm slowly learning how to interact with others without booze. It's painful at best.
Now I can't sleep. Especially now that I've gone and made myself a cup of tea and found that my cockroach problem has exponentially increased (Oh the perils of living in a hot climate above a supermarket and two restaurants). I can't win- they crawl up through the drains, fly in through open windows, oh yes, it's a Six Legged Sydney Summer alright.
I can't kill insects- or any anything for that matter. Call me a big softie, but people like me need all the good karma we can get. I've been laughed at for fishing a fly out of my drink and dabbing its wings dry with a napkin. I approach stray dogs in public and call animal control. I freak out when people step on spiders. I feed wild birds, pet feral cats, and on more than a few occaisions have risked the Hanta Virus by freeing mice and rats from sticky traps with nothing more than a butter knife and a sheet of cling film. If you ever want to make me cry, show me a suffering animal.
But I HATE cockies. They're such vile, wretched creatures even if I do share an affinity with their hardiness and survival in the face of adversity. My loathing for them was slightly diminished after watching Wall-E (Yes I cried my eyes out when he couldn't remember Eve. Fucking deal with it) but they creep me out to no end. Normally when I'm pissed I swallow all my morals, grab the death black can of Mortein, close my eyes and reenact The Cockroach in the Striped Pyjamas with reckless, gassy abandon. But I can't do it sober. My stomach wretches watching them flip on to their backs and violently die; even if the little fuckers do piss, shit, and vomit all over my food in an insectoid take on a Japanese Scat Orgy. It doesn't help having two lame duck cats that will happily toy with and ultimately devour any insect except cockroaches (to be fair, the Chairman is petrified of crawling insects after he was sprayed by a beetle and foamed at the mouth for an hour).
And until I find a cat safe roach bait (neither Coles nor Woolies carry one) I have to live with them. Even if it does occaisionally lead to socially awkward moments in front of company. In more extreme cases, startling my flatmate with a piercing shriek as I turn on the kitchen light, sending them scurrying for the safety of the shadows while I scurry up onto the nearest chair. Or more pedestrian exchanges, such as:
"Bitch please. If you think you can deposit your ootheca in the middle of the sink without me saying anything then you've got another thing coming!" *clicks fingers*
"Nathan, are you talking to the Cockroaches... again???"
And I wonder why I
a) Drink
and
b) Can't find a husband.
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